


Weapon

by checkerbee



Series: 31 Days of Apex (Drabbles) [9]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: 31 Days of Apex (Apex Legends), Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:53:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25607668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkerbee/pseuds/checkerbee
Summary: Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like to live out a normal life.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Series: 31 Days of Apex (Drabbles) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812307
Kudos: 29





	Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> For weapons do not feel  
> They do not choose  
> They do not weep

Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like to live out a normal life, just another person that you pass on the street every once in a while, completely forgettable and average. 

He doesn't remember anything from Before, not really. Anything that hasn't been buried under three lifetime's worth of death and revival, locked in a part of his brain that he doesn't have access to anymore. 

How did he like his coffee? Sugar with no cream or plenty of both? Black, simple, a little too strong? Did he even like coffee or did it make him jittery, give him heartburn? 

He would've been twenty-five when he died the first time and the face that had looked back at him looked it, still a little round and soft around the edges, even before he scraped the stubble away with a straight razor. In the simulation, his apartment had always been tidy, neat and minimalist, like something out of a homeowner's magazine, with its open space and dust free glass tables and floor to ceiling windows. 

It was cookie cutter except for the gun on the counter and the anti-titan weapon under the glass table. Orderly, sterile. Inhuman.

Robotic.

He flexes his fingers, resists the urge to dig them into the metal tendons of his leg, looks around his room in the Apex facility and spots the similarities. 

It doesn't look lived in and really it isn't, because he isn't alive. Not really. Instead of the warm wash of sun through a wall of glass windows, it's bathed in the sickly glow of fluorescent bulbs that bounce light off of plain, off-white walls. If not for the raven's skull carved from stone that sits on the nightstand, you wouldn't even know it was his room. 

He picks it up, curls it in his hand and locks it within the cage of his fingers, feels its weight in his palm and feels an ache in his chest. 

It had been a gift, a sign of hospitality when he entered the games, the only one offered up from any of the eclectic cast that make up the bloodsport and he wonders why it was given. Good luck maybe or an attempt to make him feel welcome, he isn't sure and he doubts the hunter is about to offer him an explanation. 

But he keeps it, makes sure not to scratch it with the sharp tips of his fingers. Wipes off the blood when he forgets to wash his hands after a game and picks it up. Its always sitting there, waiting for him to return and he wonders if one day he won't. If one day he'll run out of bodies or the girl will get her way and put a bullet in the only part of him that's still made of flesh. 

Would they retrieve their gift, store it among their knick-knacks and trophies or bury it with him when  _ -if- _ he gets put into the ground once this is all over? He doesn't really know and he thinks about asking them, considers setting the little trinket aside to go find them and ask for a favor, but he holds himself still instead. 

There's no real need for him to act on the offering, to make friends or pursue anything beyond a passing glance in the arena. 

They are irrevocably, painfully human and he isn't. They'll grow old and die, fade away to dust while he remains unchanged. And isn't that kind of the point of it all? He's the perfect killer, untethered, immortal. A weapon that can rust before it's replaced with a carbon copy. Though, try as they might have, with their simulations of endless sunsets and perfect apartments, he isn't unfeeling. 

It's there, the need for something more. The image of this barren little room slowly being filled with more gifts, more trinkets, more signs of life, until it's his room. Their room. A shared space. 

It's a nice fantasy, he thinks as he sets the skull back on the table. It's a nice fantasy, but weapons don't dream. They don't feel. They don't long for more. 

They just are. 

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on filling all the prompts eventually, but it definitely won't be by the end of the month. 
> 
> That being said, I hoped you like this one.


End file.
